Earth Angel
by noctuua
Summary: I was as hollow and empty as the spaces between stars. AU in which Clint Barton is a well-off business man discontent with his life until he meets a girl with hair that bleeds and eyes that burn. Rated for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_I was as hollow and empty as the spaces between stars. - Raymond Chandler_

* * *

It's 8 in the morning on a Tuesday when Clint Barton sees his first angel. He's sitting on a train across from a girl, how old, he isn't sure, but she's got the lushest lips and the brightest hair he's ever laid eyes on. The rising sun casts its rays upon her head and it looks like she's wearing a burning halo. Perhaps it's bleeding, Clint thinks, and now he isn't sure whether she's an angel or the devil. His light or his demise.

A bump on the tracks jars Clint from his daze and his eyes focus on the girl's dazzling green ones. He realizes she's caught him staring and he quickly averts his gaze to the old woman sitting a few seats down. Clint's been taking the same train for four years and this is the first time he's seen the young woman. He wonders if she's always taken it as well, just boarded different cars, or if she's just moved to New York.

Clint is taken aback by his overwhelming interest in this girl, but for the first time in years he feels something other than boredom and hollowness. He's curious.

When his stop is next, he lets his eyes travel slowly back towards the girl. He's surprised to see that she's still looking at him, but her expression is not one of fear or disgust. She gazes at him with mild interest, and he finds himself excited when she gives him a once-over, her eyes glinting with something he can't quite get a grip on, but it's the most emotion he's felt in a while.

He looks back as he steps out of the car onto the platform and disappointment washes over Clint when he realizes that the young woman's interest did not hold long enough for her to see him off the train.

She preoccupies his thoughts for the rest of the day and for the first time in years he is not unhappy. He's unsure of whether it's because of her beauty or the way she'd looked at him. Perhaps he had imagined her interest, although he hopes not.

Clint is disappointed again when the girl is not on the evening train and he thinks that the sunset would do her hair even more justice.

As he approaches his apartment building, Clint's good mood recedes as if it knows its departure is inevitable. The smell of lasagna washes over him as the elevator doors slide open and he fights the urge to push the button that makes them close.

"Clint!" Comes a shout from the kitchen. A brunette head pokes out of the doorway and Clint forces his lips into a smile.

"I'm glad you're home!" She says with a grin. "I just took dinner out of the over. Also, my dad called and wants us to visit him and my mom next weekend."

"Great," he replies, a bit too enthusiastically.

In the time it took for him to get from the sidewalk to his apartment, Clint's life has reverted back to bleak and monotonous and he doesn't know how much longer he can stand it.

* * *

_A/N: I didn't expect to start another chaptered fic so soon after my first one, but I got this idea in my head and it's all I've been able to think of in terms of writing, so I present this to youuu~ I will tell you though, that I'm in college and I have three weeks left until I go on winter break AKA I have finals so I can't promise regular updates. I'll work on it whenever I can though and I already know what's going to happen it all just has to be written. :3 Thanks for reading and reviews are always appreciated!_

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Marvel._


	2. Chapter 2

The gray clouds that cluster in the sky match Clint's mood, or maybe, he thinks, his life; dull and monotonous. Dreary.

He's unhappy and the atmosphere seems to know that, seems to sympathize, for it mirrors the death in his eyes and the clouds begin to weep.

Clint sits atop a black, leather throne with his secretary as his scribe and this skyscraper as his castle.

He works in said skyscraper in the middle of New York City, 12 hours a day, 60 hours a week. It's the same routine every day—the same as it's been since he started dating Chloe, aside from the fact that he's no longer in business school.

He gets up at 6, goes to the gym downstairs until 7, eats breakfast while Chloe sleeps, and takes the subway to work to be there by 8am.

At 8pm Clint leaves work, takes the subway home, eats dinner with Chloe, chats about menial things, and goes to bed by 11:30.

If asked, he knows exactly which movie he would choose to describe his life; _Groundhog Day_, starring Bill Murray.

It was inevitable, really, that he would end up in a huge city, working one position below the CEO of one of the largest companies in the state.

He comes from a well off family that has a house in the Hamptons and was constantly surrounded by his four siblings growing up. As a middle child, Clint learned to care of himself, and so he strove to be the most successful, with good grades, looks, and a kind, yet sharp personality.

After graduating in the top ten percent of his high school class, Clint attended New York University and from there, continued on to business school.

He was a determined boy, motivated by his need to best the rest of his siblings. Although he certainly was no role model, improving his business skills as the go-to undergraduate for alcohol—but you had to know what you were getting into. Clint could be very tricky and very persuasive.

In his second year at business school, Clint met a girl named Chloe, with brown hair and brown eyes and a fair face that was neither beautiful, nor was it unsightly.

He'd had his fair share of girlfriends by then, and while she hadn't been the most attractive or the smartest, Chloe had been the most interesting, and so Clint _almost_ fell in love with her.

When he thinks about it now, he knows he settled for Chloe. They've been together for almost three years now and Clint is the most unhappy he's ever been.

He thinks it's safe to assume that Chloe revealed her most interesting bits in order to get him to fall for her, but in doing so, she ran out of content and Clint was left with a Chloe that was stripped of new and exciting. He only stays with her for comfort. Because he knows that she'll always be there and he'd rather not make the mistake of breaking up with her only to be left alone in the world until his last, lingering breath.

Chloe is the mote and the bridge and the walls that surround him. She embodies every object that will not let him leave.

The apartment building they live in sits on the edge of Central Park, towering over the beautiful, urban space. It had been decided two and a half years before that they would live together, and so they reside in the penthouse that looks out of the park and beyond. Chloe had made the choice and Clint had and still has a more than sufficient amount of money saved up through his _own _labor, thank you very much.

Now their shared quarters are another thing keeping him with her; whenever he considers leaving, he thinks of the paperwork. How tedious.

Clint knows he should be grateful, though, he really does. He's got a girlfriend that loves him more than almost anything else in the world; an absolutely gorgeous living space with a breathtaking view; he's living in New York City, his favorite city in America; he's working at his dream job; and he's got enough money saved up to last him until twenty years after his death, yet he's only just turned 28.

But that's just it. He's just turned 28. His parents married when they were 25 and had him when they were his age. At this point in his life, the only thing he can actually seriously consider is how long he can get away with not proposing to Chloe.

He's bored and tired of his life but he's too much of a coward to do something about it—namely, break up with Chloe. Why complicate such a simple set up that's been established for years? He hates himself for it, hates Chloe, but he knows this is best for his success and so he stays frozen in a life that brings him nothing but misery.

Something changes though, on a Tuesday morning. The girl with the red hair and the bright eyes evokes something in Clint, causes sparks in his brain and his heart and for the first time in three years, Clint feels something other than discontent.

Thoughts of her keep the sparks going, create a burning in Clint that almost scares him, but he's like a man dehydrated and grasping at life. He'll do anything to be relieved and the girl with the red hair is his savior. His angel.

* * *

_A/N: If you're confused, don't be. I changed the name from "Etched" to "Earth Angel" because I liked the new title better and it's also one of my favorite songs. It's by the Penguins if you were wondering. Anyways, I apologize for the delay, but finals are kicking my ass and I have 3 days left until I get to go home for almost a month! So here's the second chapter and I basically have the third one written so you can expect that in the next few days. Possibly in the next few hours. :-) Reviews are always appreciated and thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

She's always taken this train, to school and back home, but she'd been in a rush this morning, green eyes blinded by rage.

When she thinks back on it now, her wrists itch and she wants to claw at the skin, tear it from her bones. He hadn't wanted her to leave, had begged her to stay and when she refused, had gotten up to leave, he'd tied her to the bed and left her there. _He's going to regret it_, she smirks at the thought, he'll get desperate when she doesn't call or text. She loves when they break, when they whine and plead, but then they get needy so she dumps them and finds a new toy.

And then she sees _him_, or rather catches him staring; the handsome man with the nice hair and breathtaking eyes. Who'd have thought death could be so enthralling.

She notices his eyes first, both because he's staring and because they're sad. There's a twinkle in them but it's faint, flickering, about to burn out and she's like a moth to a flame. She'll kiss it despite the pain it's bound to inflict.

Color blooms across his cheeks and her lips twitch when he averts his eyes so she decides to play with him, steadies her gaze on him, almost grins when his eyes are inevitably drawn back to her.

One smooth leg over the other, the edge of her skirt riding up her thigh, she's got him hooked and she knows it.

She watches the bob of his Adam's apple when he swallows and she imagines licking the drop of sweat that rolls down his throat and settles in the hollow of his collarbone. He's beautiful and she loves the power she feels as he tries to tear his eyes away.

Desire courses through her blood and seeps into her bones. She wants him, she thinks, wants to find out why his eyes are sad, wants him to need her. He's got that look about him, like he's all business, serious and deadly, but he's also a coward, she can tell, the way his legs twitch towards her, she knows he wants to talk to her and she knows he won't. It always takes them a while, but she knows he'll come eventually. She just needs to give him time.

The rhythmic sway of her hips is enough to attract any man's attention and Natasha basks in the lustful gazes cast her way—the eyes that linger and glimmer with hope for just a moment as she passes. She loves the slight tilt of a man's chin as he glances backwards, just to get one more glimpse.

Watching, noticing, judging, Natasha pays attention to every man she sees, assesses him in under two seconds. She likes the serious, hard-faced ones, the older ones, the ones she has to actually put effort into, otherwise what's the point? Where's the chase? The ones that are the hardest to break are the most fun. They start off cold, distant, uncaring, but she's Natasha and within weeks she's lit a fire in them, burning so intensely that they destroy themselves in their passion. Needy and clingy, she tosses them away and moves on. The power she feels keeps her going, her ability to bring almost any man to his knees is astounding and exhilarating, and it keeps her alive and she loves every second of it.

Feelings of disappointment surprise her when he leaves but she doesn't let him catch her watching, she's already got it all planned out.

The vibration of her phone jars her from her thoughts and she glances at the screen, rolls her eyes when she reads the message. It's from _him_, the other one. It's only been two days since she was _with_ him and he's already getting clingy. She loves it.

She doesn't reply, though. Probably won't for at least another day or two. She'll make him sweat and doubt himself and she'll make him hers just like she does with every other man.

She's a black widow, beautiful and devious, and the man with the gorgeous, dead eyes is about to be her next meal.

* * *

_A/N: Surprise! You get two updates in the span of two hours! I don't have much else to say except for that you shouldn't fret about learning Natasha's back story quite yet-you'll learn it as the fic continues. :-) Anyways, thanks for reading and reviews are always appreciated!_


	4. Chapter 4

The look of annoyance that glints in her eyes is evident to everyone in their car _but_ the man that continues to stand over her and breathe on her neck. She hasn't looked up from her book yet, but her nostrils flare when he mutters under his breath about what a stuck up bitch she is and how grateful she should be that a man like him deigns to give her his attention.

Clint can feel his blood boiling but he knows he shouldn't start anything and watching the girl for the past few weeks doesn't seem to qualify as the right to break the man's nose.

It's like this almost every day. Clint sits on the opposite side of the train, watching the girl with the blazing, red hair and every few days she has a different book. Her attention never strays from the pages, not even when men approach her and attempt to start conversations.

She keeps her bag on the seat beside her and she's never once moved it, except for that one time an old woman boarded the train and Clint may have melted a little, but that doesn't happen to 28 year old business men.

He wants to talk to her, he really does, but he fears he'll be rejected like the multitude of men before him and he doesn't think he could stand it if the hatred in her eyes was turned on him.

He wonders if maybe she has a boyfriend, a guy who has the privilege of holding her in his arms at night and waking up to see her beautiful face across the pillows.

He imagines her sprawled across his couch wearing nothing but one of his button downs and he's startled when he catches himself. When had his thoughts become filled with her?

Clint finds himself looking away because she's being seared into the backs of his eyelids and the surface of his brain. He can't keep his mind from straying to her, fantasies of her, and it's affecting his work and his life outside of this godforsaken train.

Every day is the same, but it keeps his spirits up just a bit every time she denies a man the chance to sit next to her.

She's been called a stuck up bitch, and mother fucking slut, and a stubborn cunt more times than should be appropriate, and Clint wishes he had the balls to do something, but he's not even sure she'd appreciate it.

It's been a few weeks since he first laid eyes on her, and on the fourth day of the third week, they make eye contact for the second time. Her green eyes burn into his and it feels like she's trying to tell him something, but it's starting to feel hot in the car so Clint thinks he might be over analyzing the situation.

When she tilts her chin slightly and turns back towards her book, her eyes linger on him for just a second too long and she smiles demurely, just a small lift at the corner of her mouth.

Clint thinks he's fallen in love, or maybe in lust.

A shadow falls over the page that she's been pretending to read for the past five minutes. She's felt his eyes on her, has felt them every day for the past three weeks, and she's finally decided to do something about it. Set her plan into action.

It isn't hard to meet his gaze and she can tell he's instantly captivated by her stare so she gives a slight smile and waits.

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

Natasha's eyes slide shut and her mouth goes dry.

Nothing she's imagined could capture his voice. It's low, but not too low, a kind of rumble in his chest, and it's gravelly, raspy, and it's enough to make her wet.

She opens her eyes and looks up at him through her eyelashes and Jesus fucking Christ, if he isn't the most beautiful man she's ever seen.

His eyes bore holes into her own and it feels like she's drowning.

She realizes she's taken too long to respond because his brows furrow and he bites his lip and Natasha swoons. He looks nervous and he opens his mouth to apologize but she grabs her bag and transfers it to her lap.

"It's all yours."

She smiles in a manner that she hopes is reassuring.

A cool, spicy scent washes over Natasha and she finds it intriguing. It's a mixture of mint and cleanliness and Calvin Klein and she licks her lips just slightly, hoping he doesn't notice the way she shifts closer.

Clint thinks she smells like heaven, if heaven has a scent, and he knows he wouldn't mind being smothered by her. He'd gladly drown himself in her. He thinks it's safe not to say anything else, lest he make a fool of himself and destroy his chances.

_His chances?_He blinks. Hesitates. He shouldn't be thinking like this, he never, ever would, but his life is crashing down on him and most days he thinks about hurling himself off of the Empire States building, but the thought of seeing her on the train creates a feeling of content in him and he realizes what he wants. What he needs.

A week after her begins to sit with her, he decides to make a move.

They never talk, ever, and the most interaction they have on a daily basis is her turning her brilliant smile on him when he boards the train and moving her bag for him to sit. It's the same in the evenings.

It's because she gets off at his stop one night that he decides to say something, but he's afraid that the words won't come out and she'll stop letting him sit next to her.

Jesus, it feels like high school all over again and he hates himself for feeling this way.

They exit the car and walk side by side through the station. Clint isn't sure when he should say something because he has no idea which exit she'll use. His worries are diminished as they begin up the same steps and Clint is glad for the fresh air that caresses his face.

He wonders where she's going, because she's never gotten off at this station before. Maybe to see a friend? _Or her boyfriend_, whispers a voice in the back of his mind, but he shoves it aside and refuses to contemplate it anymore.

She's about to turn in the opposite direction of him, when he shouts for her. He doesn't know her name and he doesn't want to alarm her by touching her, so what comes out of his mouth is as much of a surprise to him as it is to her.  
"Hey!" His hand is raised slightly in a sort of awkward hail or wave, and when Natasha turns to look at him, she can see him mentally berating himself.

_"Hey!"? Seriously, Clint? You're 28, you can do better than that._

His spirits are lifted when she turns around, one eyebrow arched in question.

"Yes?"

Clint's heart is beating so fast he thinks it might explode and he hasn't been this nervous since the interview for his current job. Even his fucking palms are sweating.

"I was wondering if you'd like to get coffee with me sometime?" He asks, a corner if his mouth lifted in a nervous grin.

He's tall, she realizes, taller than she'd initially thought, _and exactly how she likes them_, she thinks. But she won't let him feel so at ease, as much as she's dying to accept.

"I don't even know your name."

"I'm Clint," he replies quickly, his hand shooting out in front of him, "Clint Barton."

She steadies her gaze on him for a moment before taking his large hand in her comparatively small one.

"Natasha Romanoff." She smiles finally, and Clint never knew you could be attracted to a person's teeth.

"I'd like that," she continues, letting go of his hand and then pausing.

"I'll give you my number and you can text me when you're free?" She says it in the form of a question, but they both know it's a statement.

Before Clint can take out his phone to give to her, she grabs his hand in hers again, which he really could get used to, and pulls out a pen. His confusion stalls him for long enough that by the time he realizes what's happening, she's already done.

Her number is written on the palm of his hand in small, neat handwriting, and Clint's heart skips a beat for two reasons.

The first being that he doesn't want Chloe to see it and ask questions.

And the second being that he hasn't felt this anticipant in years.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the wait! Writer's block and being too lazy to write are an awful combination but I have the next chapter almost finished and then the chapter after that is gonna be smut. Smut, smut, smut, ehehehehee. But anyways, thanks to everyone who has favorited and reviewed and thank you for being patient and amazing and think of this chapter as a late Christmas present. :-)_


	5. Chapter 5

The smell of coffee and freshly baked goods overwhelm Clint's nose as he steps into the small cafe, warm air swirling around him. He does a quick once over of the shop, a boyish eagerness sparkling in his eyes and it's all Natasha can do to keep from laughing. His eyes no longer look dull and lifeless, although it's still there around the edges, like it's waiting to pour back in.

Her hair stands out though; she's the only girl with fire for hair and a grin spreads across Clint's face when she gives him a small wave.

They sit in comfortable silence as they wait for their coffee, which surprises Clint as he tends to fidget when he's nervous.

He passes the time looking at Natasha, admiring the pale, smooth complexion of her skin, the elegant curve of her neck, the accented bow of her beautiful lips, the sparkle in her eyes, a mixture of curiosity, passion, and something he can't quite put a finger on. Her posture is perfect, back straight and ankles crossed. She's the epitome of elegance and beauty and perfection and Clint realizes he's been staring for far too long.

Natasha smiles though, as she's been regarding him in quite the same manner. Clint is all angles, sharp, defined. His jaw, his brow line, his shoulders, god, the only thing she wants to do right now is kiss him and she's astonished because she's never felt this way about anyone before him and she suddenly understands what dangerous territory she's in.

She finds his eyes mesmerizing, their beauty and depth are stunning, and the gold flecks scattered amongst the blue and gray in his iris make her feel like she's falling and she realizes she's been holding her breath. As if doing so will freeze time. She looks at his lips and notices he's saying something and when she hears her name tumble from his mouth it's like coming up for air.

The barista brings over their drinks, setting them lightly on the table along with a small plate of cookies.

"Courtesy of the other barista," she says to Natasha, her tone overly saccharine.

Natasha and Clint turn towards the bar and the young man winks, a cocky smirk marring his otherwise handsome face.

Clint supposes he should be jealous, or maybe just angry because they're obviously here together and the boy flirts with Natasha practically in his face.

His feelings are quickly forgot though, as Natasha turns, anger flashing across her eyes momentarily.

She nudges the plate of baked goods to the edge of the table with the back of her hand, looking up at Clint and adding, "I'm not actually hungry right now, but you're more than welcome..."

Clint responds with a slight shake of his head and is met with a breathtaking grin.

"So, Clint Barton, what is it you do for a living?"

Her elbows rest on the table, hands clasped together so that her chin sits atop them. As Clint talks about his work and his life in college, Natasha's eyes reveal nothing but genuine interest and Clint can't remember the last time he had such a two-sided conversation. Work leads to him talking about his childhood and he finds himself enamored by Natasha's small bursts of laughter. The way her head tilts back and her plump lips open just so to reveal her perfect, white teeth.

For the second time with Natasha, he thinks he might be in love. _Lust_, he reminds himself.

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly, a light blush spreading across his cheeks. Natasha finds it endearing.

"I've been talking about myself for about half an hour! God, how boring. Please, tell me about yourself."

He looks at her expectantly, taking a sip of his coffee.

She hesitates.

"Where to begin...?"

* * *

Natasha Romanoff was born Natalia Romanova in a small town in Russia. She was adopted at the age of two and a half and she has no recollection of her birth parents. When asked years later by a fellow third grader as to whether or not she missed her real parents, Natasha would respond that no, she did not, in fact, miss her real parents because she lived with them. Her real parents are the ones who raised her, not the ones that birthed her. She'd always been a bright girl.

* * *

Natasha interrupts her own story, to inform Clint that she is not damaged by alcohol or abuse that she or her parents know of, so he has nothing to worry about. This evokes a laugh from Clint that sends warmth flooding into Natasha's stomach and she really can't remember the last time a guy had this effect on her. How inappropriate would it be for her to offer her body to him right here in this coffee shop? She figures she doesn't want to chance it and continues.

* * *

Since the young age of six, Natasha has known she wants to be a doctor, although she's not quite sure why. Of course, there's the fact that helping people is a great thing for a person to do with the rest of his or her life, but Natasha thinks there's something so thrilling about the trauma that goes on in an emergency room. She likes to be in the middle of all the action.

The way Natasha's eyes light up with excitement intrigues Clint and he's amazed that such a young person can exhibit this amount of enthusiasm and passion. He supposes, however, that she's seemed like an interesting girl from the start.

When Natasha's mentions that she studies at NYU, Clint wants to jump with joy, because that's a great thing to have in common so they can see each other again, right?

She notices the way his eyebrows raise slightly and she frowns, misinterpreting his expression.

"What? Did you not expect someone like me to be able to get into NYU?" Her tone is accusing.

Clint's hands lift off the table in a sort of surrendering position, both palms facing Natasha and arms outstretched.

"Whoa," he says, surprised. "I wasn't implying that at all, and I don't know why you would think I was. I was just excited because I'm an NYU alumni!"

Natasha's posture relaxes visibly, and a pretty pink tints the apples of her cheeks and spreads down her neck, past the collar of her shirt. Clint wonders how far it spreads and then quickly adjusts his train of thought.

"I'm sorry," she sighs, "I didn't mean to snap. Just, sometimes people get a bit judgmental."

"It's fine, honestly," he replies, shooting her a reassuring smile.

They continue to talk, Natasha mentioning excitedly that she's just moved into a new apartment with a girl she met a year ago. They discuss their interests covering movies, television, books, music, and more. Before either of them realizes, it's been five hours and the evening crowd is starting to flood into the cafe.

"I had a really great time, Clint," Natasha smiles, making eye contact to thoroughly express her feelings.

Clint feels the fourth vibration of his phone, most likely another text from Chloe and he really doesn't want to go home, but he smiles down at Natasha, his heart beating erratically.

"I did too. I'd really like to see you again." Natasha can feel the sincerity of his words and they wrap around her, filling her with warmth and causing her to blush again.

"I'll text you," Natasha says, turning away with a smile.

She changes her mind though, turning around so quickly that her hair whips around and lightly slaps her cheek.

She approaches him cautiously before leaning up on her toes and placing a small kiss on his cheek. She turns again walking to the door this time, before looking back once more to wave, a small smile gracing her lips.

Once the door has shut behind her, Clint sends the male barista a shit eating grin and then follows Natasha out the door.

He doesn't quite remember, but Clint's pretty sure he floated home.

* * *

The rest of his week is interspersed with texts from Natasha and they become the only thing that Clint looks forward to. The texts themselves are pretty meaningless, but they always find something to talk about and no conversation ends with an awkward silence.

Chloe hasn't noticed anything different, but Clint feels happier—_is _happier, and his step has gotten lighter. It's as if a giant weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and when he and Natasha schedule their next "date", or whatever it is, Clint doesn't really know, he swears his grin might split his face in two.

He briefly considers how pathetic he must seem, from an outside perspective, as a 28 year old that has the potential of one day running one of the biggest companies in the state being completely smitten with a girl he doesn't even really know. Especially when you factor in Natasha's age, which, actually, Clint realizes, he doesn't know because they had sort of avoided that whole part of the conversation. Yes, he knows she's a college student, but he'd just assumed that she's a junior or, no, probably a senior. He'll go with that.

A few days before Clint and Natasha get together again, Chloe is called away on business to somewhere in California and if Clint gave more of a fuck about Chloe well, he'd give more of a fuck. But he's happy to see her off early Friday morning and then he's free of her for seven days. Seven whole days without Chloe. He's doesn't even know what he'll do.

They meet at the cafe again, but this time they get their drinks to go, as they've both agreed that it's a nice enough day out for a walk. The sun shines down brightly, not a cloud in sight, and it would be perfect weather if it weren't the middle of January.

As they pass under an arch that leads into Central Park, Clint recalls what he'd been thinking about earlier in the week and stops.

"Hey, Natasha, how old are you?"

Natasha stops a few steps ahead of him and turns slowly, her cheeks glowing red, from the cold Clint isn't sure.

"I'm a sophomore," she says finally, her voice cautious.

"A twenty year old sophomore, right?" His question is followed by a nervous laugh that hangs awkwardly between them in the suddenly too dry air.

"No..." Natasha hesitates, worrying her bottom lip with her two front teeth.

"I'm nineteen, actually. But Clint," she reaches her hand out to touch his arm but he jerks back and the look of hurt in her eyes breaks his heart.

"I really hope that doesn't change anything," she finishes lamely, her hand dropping to hang by her side. "If it helps, I'm turning twenty next month."

There's a sort of desperation that Clint can hear in Natasha's voice and he looks at her, really looks at her, and he thinks she's worth it.

"Well, I hope you don't mind that I'm twenty-eight," he adds, a hint of laughter in his voice.

"Oh, god no." She's nonchalant and she realizes that she sounded too relaxed about it, so she grabs his hand and they continue to walk. Neither notice that their fingers remain entwined.

Further on in the park, Natasha's name is shouted and they both turn to see the owner of the voice.

A man a bit shorter than Clint stands behind them, his posture aggravated, and he's stalking towards them. The man yells at Natasha, yelling what, Clint doesn't know because he's too busy trying to figure out who the man is.

He's older than Clint, his face weathered and dark hair streaked with gray, but he's handsome and the look suits him. He's wearing a black pea coat and nice dress shoes, and his hands are clad in leather gloves, a briefcase held in one.

"Are you Natasha's father?" Clint thinks it's a reasonable question, but he doesn't seem to be heard.

"And who the fuck is this?" The man points an accusatory finger in Clint's face.

"Your new boy toy? Your most recent fuck? Slut! That's what you are—you're just a good for nothing whore! The only use you have is for fucking."

Well, Clint thinks, he's obviously not her father.

Natasha hasn't said anything yet, but her eyes are starting to glisten and the hand that he's been holding tightens and Clint realizes that the look in her eye is not anger, but fear.

"Hey man," Clint says, stepping between the man and Natasha. "I don't know who you are, but maybe you should just get out if here. She clearly doesn't want to talk to you."

It's as if Clint talking feeds the fire within the man because his eyes become even more filled with rage and his nostrils flare.

He pushes Clint in the chest as he yells, "Why don't you mind your own fucking business and fuck off?"

Now, Clint has never been one to start fights or participate in them, but when he has, he's been known to conquer. He's not a small man; he's tall and broad, not fat, but he's all muscle, and the fact that he works out every morning only makes it more so.

He'll say it's because he was provoked, but he really loves the adrenalin rush, and the satisfying crunch he both hears and feels as his fist connects with the man's nose is exhilarating.

As the man stumbles back, clutching his nose, he shouts at the two, "You mother fucker, you better watch your fucking back. The same goes to your bitch whore."

When the man is gone, Clint looks back at Natasha. He doesn't really know what he expects, but it sure isn't the smooth palm that connects with his cheek.

"Fuck, Natasha! What the hell was that for?" Clint holds a hand up to his face in an attempt to soothe the ache that's beginning to pulse.

Her eyes are blazing, boiling with rage and her cheeks are beginning to flush, the color spreading like before.

"That was _so_ unnecessary and I didn't need your help, Clint!" Her shoulders are trembling.

"We'll, it sure didn't seem that way to me." Clint doesn't understand why she's suddenly protecting the guy, standing up for him when he was calling her those terrible names.

"Whatever," she huffs, turning away. "Don't bother calling me again."

Clint stares aghast at her retreating back and he's so confused and shocked and angry that he doesn't even stop her. He spends the rest of his week sulking between his apartment and work.

* * *

Clint sees Natasha on the train every morning but she stops moving her bag for him and gives him the cold shoulder. He's thought about texting her but he still doesn't get what he did wrong so he doesn't think he should be the one apologizing.

He watches for days as men approach her and attempt to converse with her and it's exactly as it was before the first time they spoke, so it comes as a nasty surprise when on the third day, she lets one of them sit and then continues to talk with him, discussing something about the book she's been reading.

Jealousy is not an emotion that Clint has much experience with, but the two become best friends over the next few days. Each day is a new man and each day Clint spirals deeper into his jealousy. He begins to feel another emotion when one of the men rests his arm on the back of the seat, his hand draped lightly over Natasha's slender shoulder.

Desperation, Clint realizes. He's desperate for her attention, and he'd stop and consider what a huge fucking problem that is except for that he's too busy yearning for her.

By the end of the week, and unfortunately Chloe's back, Clint has his phone out and he sends the message to Natasha that he knows he should've sent from the very beginning.

_Nat, I'm sorry I lost my cool. I should have let you handle the situation. I realize I'm not your boyfriend or anything and I know you can look out for yourself. I hope I didn't get you in any trouble. Forgive me?_

* * *

_A/N: Wow, that's the most I've written in so long. But yeah, here's the next chapter and I have the next one started and if you're lucky, I'll have it finished by tomorrow night/5am on Saturday, haha. AND it has smut, finally! Also, Hawaiichick, didya like the little thing about Clint's eyes? That was alllll for you ;-) Thanks for the suggestion! And thank you to everyone else who has reviewed and favorited! Keep it up, please! But really, the most important thing to take from this A/N is that the next chapter has smut. Smut. I dunno about you guys but that's the part I've been looking forward to most, ehehe. Also it's almost 6am, excuse me._


	6. Chapter 6

_Smut, just like I promised :3 Enjoy!_

* * *

_Forgiven. :-) Text you later, I'm in class 'till five._

Clint has never truly known relief until now, and he finds himself actually starting to think about the situation he's gotten himself into.

Natasha is the most incredible girl he's ever met, and he knows this is a bit like how he felt when he met Chloe, but the two are so dissimilar he doesn't waste time trying to compare them. Yes, she's much younger than he'd initially thought, but does age really matter when you have so much in common? Everything about her just feels so right. _She's also legal_, he reminds himself.

Clint would never in a million years cheat on the woman he was with, but does his and Chloe's relationship even count as one anymore? He guesses it probably does to her, but Clint has been dead inside for years and he knows they're going nowhere. He can't even remember the last time they fucked. He thinks if everything works out with Natasha, his life might actually be alright, but things actually have to happen.

Then there's that—Natasha. He's thought about what the man said, and Clint's not dumb, far from it. He's gathered that Natasha is with other guys, sexually or emotionally, he's not sure, and while Clint is definitely not happy with it, he can't really say much because look at what he's doing. And they never were _really_ dating.

So, Clint texts her an hour later asking her to dinner, to which she responds, _I'd love to. Just send me the place and time._

The restaurant is just a few blocks away from his apartment, but he's told Chloe that he's working late tonight so he knows she'll be ordering in. The restaurant is called _Lucia_, a small Italian restaurant with a gorgeous view of the park. It's fancy, enough to show that he's trying, but not so much that it seems like he's bragging.

As Clint is getting ready to leave from work, he receives a text from Natasha with a photo attached. She's standing in front of a mirror wearing nothing but a red strapless bra and matching red panties. Both are made of lace and qualify more as scraps than as underwear, and Clint's mouth goes dry. The caption reads, "These match, right?"

This is the most intimate they've been in their...whatever this is, and Clint couldn't be happier, but he deletes the photo as a precaution. Although, not before he stares at it for a few seconds longer and commits the image to memory.

* * *

He's already seated when Natasha arrives, and Clint thinks he might not survive to see the end of the night because his tongue feels like cotton and he has to adjust his trousers before standing.

She's wearing a red dress, that matches her underwear he recalls, and it's appropriate enough for the restaurant but leaves little to the imagination.

The way the fabric clings to Natasha's curves mimics what Clint wishes he could do to her, do with her. It's beginning to feel hot in the restaurant and he hopes she doesn't notice as he runs a nervous finger between his shirt collar and his neck.

As they sit at the table waiting to order, they make small talk, catching up on what they missed while not speaking. Clint's generally a good listener, but he can't help but be distracted by everything that Natasha is.

Her blazing locks are swept up into an elegant half up, half down do that reveals the smooth column of her neck. All Clint wants to do is lick it, suck it, bite it until Natasha's moaning and writhing underneath him. The table will hold, right?

He loves the animation with which she speaks using her hands, and the brightness in her eyes shines like the sun. He wishes they could stay here forever in this moment.

As he watches the movement of her lips, the way they shape her words and the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips, he feels something nudge the side of his calf. When Clint goes to move his leg, a foot wraps around his ankle, anchoring him into place. He glances up at Natasha but her expression reveals nothing, and Clint swears his heart is going to hammer out of his chest. Natasha continues talking, something about a project she's working on for school, and Clint can feel her toes massaging his leg through his trousers.

When their waiter approaches the table, one of Natasha's toes wiggles its way under the cuff of one leg and Clint begins to sweat. She seems to order every type of food that can be eaten sensually and he really needs that wine to get here quickly. Once the waiter has returned with the wine and left, Natasha excuses herself to the bathroom. As she passes Clint, she brushes against his arm, her hand finding his and stuffing something into it. He's amazed at how nonchalant she can be.

His eyes go wide when he opens his hand and he shoves it under the table before anyone else can see. Natasha's given him the red scrap of lace she was wearing in the photo she sent him, and he can't imagine where she's been keeping them, but they're still warm. He imagines if he were to hold them up to his face, they'd still smell of her, and Clint has to adjust his pants again to relieve some of the pressure.

He loosens his tie a bit in hopes that it'll help him breathe easier, but all he can think about is Natasha sitting across from him wearing nothing under her dress. He reaches out for his glass of water and he can't keep his hand from shaking, the ice clinking noisily against the glass.

He doesn't know how or why, but he can tell when she's re-entered the room and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. The tension is palpable as she takes her seat and smiles at him, a huge grin that says everything and nothing all at once.

The waiter returns with their food and pours Clint his second glass of wine. Natasha smiles up at the man, thanking him for their food and placing a hand on the arm of his jacket, even as her foot resumes its assault on Clint's leg. The waiter is staying for far too long, his gaze drifting to Natasha's cleavage every so often and Clint clears his throat, for multiple reasons.

As the waiter scurries away, Natasha turns back to Clint and she goes for the clams first, using her tongue in a far too erotic manner; it doesn't even resemble eating.

Clint gulps and he's sure it's audible from across the table and he can tell she's noticed the way he's gripping his napkin, as if doing so will rid him of his hard on, but she continues eating, maintaining eye contact as her foot travels up his thigh.

He attempts to start eating, reaching for one of the clams, but Natasha chooses that moment to press her foot against the bulge in his trousers and the clam clatters back onto the platter. An old woman glares at him from the table next to theirs and Clint is glad for the length of these tablecloths.

She goes for the soup next and holds the spoon across the table, waiting for Clint to open his mouth. _Two can play at this game_, he thinks, and he laps at the spoon with the tip of his tongue before taking the whole thing into his mouth and sucking on it. He revels in the way Natasha lets out a sharp breath, her pupils dilating and devouring her irises. The rise and fall of her chest is becoming more erratic and he can feel the tremor in her hand through the spoon.

She's a master at her own game though, and when he finally releases the spoon, she takes it into her own mouth, swirling her tongue around it and licking its edges, her eyelids lowering so she's looking at him through her eyelashes, and with the way her foot has been caressing him, Clint's about to burst in his pants.

He stands up suddenly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor and his jacket conveniently place. He throws a hundred and fifty dollars onto the table and grabs Natasha's wrist, hauling her out of her seat and the restaurant, the other patrons watching them, bewildered.

He's not quite sure where they're going, but as they round the block that the restaurant sits on, they pass an alley and before he can think twice, he's dragging Natasha down it with him. A few meters in and cloaked in darkness, he pushes her against the side of a building, his face burrowed in the crook of her neck and his weight keeping her there.

"You're such a tease," he groans, his voice muffled by her collar bone, and he can feel the vibrations of her chuckle, low and husky and oh, so sexy.

"Mm," she moans, "But you love it."

The way she's panting and the hitch in her breath don't escape Clint's notice, so he does what he'd wanted to do back in the restaurant and assaults her neck, licking and kissing, sucking and biting, and the knowledge that she'll have marks in the morning because of _him _has him grinding his erection against her hip.

Her hands travel slowly up his chest and into his hair, pulling his head away from her neck so that they're looking each other in the eye.

His lust is mirrored in hers and Natasha yanks his head forward, their lips crashing together for their first kiss.

It's everything Clint's imagined and more. Natasha's tongue mimics her body and the two move in tandem, overwhelming Clint's senses and causing his eyes to roll back.

Natasha's never been kissed like this, so thoroughly and all for _her_ pleasure, and Clint swallows the moans that tumble from her lips with his own. For once in her life, she wants to be devoured, not to do the devouring, and the feeling is so new it scares her, so she tamps it down for another time.

Clint's been wanting to do this for ages, and while he'd really love to make Natasha come around his fingers and his tongue, he feels like he's about to explode and she's been teasing him all night. Even worse, her moans and the way she's whining his name are making it hard for him, so he thinks of puppies and kittens and Helga, Chloe's grandmother.

His attempts are futile though, because Natasha hitches one leg up around his hip and he can feel her through his trousers, hot and wet, grinding herself against his erection.

Wrapping both arms behind the backs of her knees, Clint lifts Natasha and pins her between him and the wall, and although her thighs are strong, his arms are stronger.

Clint shoves the skirt of Natasha's dress up around her waist, one arm still supporting her weight, and he thanks a deity he doesn't believe in for Natasha giving him her underwear earlier. Clint runs an impatient finger up her slit, using the heel of his palm to massage her clit, and the way she rolls her hips in time with his movements has Clint's jaw dropping.

With one hand, Natasha undoes the button of his ants, sliding the zipper down quickly, and then uses her heels (and incredible flexibility that Clint had no idea about) to push them down his thighs, along with his underwear.

Natasha's pupils have completely drowned the beautiful green and Clint watches, mesmerized, as she drags her tongue along her lips, staring down at the most amazing cock she's ever seen. It's not even that Clint's the biggest she's ever had, but he's definitely the most impressive, circumcised with an above average length and a completely satisfying girth. She's almost drooling and she's pretty sure there are stars in her eyes.

She wraps a soft hand around his rigid dick and strokes it once, twice, spreading the precum that's accumulated at the tip. In a moment of clarity, Clint grabs Natasha's wrist as she begins to guide him to her cunt and they both pause.

"Protection," he gasps, his breath coming hard and heavy (just like he wishes he was right now). Something flashes across Natasha's expression, before it's gone as quickly as it appeared and her other hand leaves his hair, swatting his from her wrist.

"It's fine, I can't get pregnant. And I'm okay without it if you are. Are you clean?"

Clint knows that she'll explain it to him if she wants to and he's never wanted anything so badly in his life.

"I'm clean," he says.

Natasha responds with the most dazzling smile and Clint's sure she's his angel or something, except for that he doesn't think angels find themselves being fucked in dark, grimy alleys.

Before Clint can actually comprehend what's happening, Natasha is sinking onto his cock, enveloping him in her heat, and Clint thinks he's died and gone to heaven. Is too much sex unhealthy? He wonders, because if not, he knows exactly how he wants to spend the rest of his life.

He can feel the way she adjusts around him, her walls caressing him, muscles clenching. It's been a while, actually, since Clint's had sex, and he's afraid this will end too soon and he'll leave Natasha unimpressed. Natasha's hands have been shoved back into his hair and her nails massage his scalp, tightening every time he hits _that_ spot, so he knows when he's doing something right.

They work perfectly together, their bodies falling into a hard and fast rhythm, and Clint's found the perfect spot on Natasha's neck that makes her cry out his name. One of his hands travels up her thigh to where it meets her pelvis, and he rubs circles on her clit with his thumb. Natasha's never found callouses sexy until now.

He brings his other hand up to play with her breasts, Natasha's thighs keeping her anchored between him and the bricks behind her, and she throws her head back as he rolls a nipple between his thumb and index finger, the callouses working wonders. He mouths at the other nipple through her dress, and Natasha knows she'll be hypersensitive there for the next few days.

Clint can feel the tension coiling in his stomach and there's a pressure at the base of his spine, desperate to be relieved. He's going to come soon, but he wants to make her come first, so he adds more pressure into the way he's rubbing her clit. When he changes the angle of his thrusts, Natasha's fingers grip his hair so tightly, he's on teetering on the border between pleasure and pain, and he'd never thought he'd be one to like _that_. Chloe had never liked rough sex and was _always_ so submissive, when Clint thinks about it, it was really kind of off putting. He shoves thoughts of Chloe aside though, and enjoys Natasha while he can.

She begins to tighten around him and Clint puts his all into his final thrusts, his pelvic bone rubbing Natasha's clit deliciously. When her orgasm hits, she throws her head back, wailing Clint's name, and he grabs her head forcing her into a rough kiss and swallowing the rest of her cries.

The pulsing of her muscles around him send Clint tumbling over the edge with her and his hips stutter as he spills into her, his teeth biting gently down into the soft flesh of her bottom lip.

Their breathing comes out in sharp gusts, and Clint can still feel the tremors that wrack through Natasha's body as she comes down from her high. Her legs unwind from around his hips; he knows he'll have bruises there tomorrow and his cock twitches at the thought, causing Natasha to raise an amused eyebrow at him.

He sets her down on the ground, both groaning at the loss as he slips out of her, and Natasha can feel their combined fluids running down the inside of her thigh. Clint hands her a handkerchief that she uses to clean herself with, and then she hands it back to him with a smirk and a wink. Clint knows he should be disgusted, yet he can't help but think it's one of the sexiest things he's ever been given.

They share one last kiss before they exit the alley, Natasha's tongue tracing Clint's lips and then massaging his tongue with her own. It's as if she's trying to swallow him, devour him, make him her own, and he finds himself thinking he really wouldn't mind. But then there's Chloe and Clint gets a headache just thinking about the huge fucking mess he's just gotten himself into.

Natasha tells him her address and he says he'll walk her home, adding with a sigh, "We should probably talk about some things."

He grabs her hand, entwining their fingers, hoping that it's a reassuring gesture, although he's sure it isn't.

* * *

She's not surprised when he says he has a girlfriend, in fact, she'd have been astonished if he'd said he didn't have one. Clint's a catch, she knows, and really, any woman would be lucky to have him. And if you've got him, you'd better hold on really fucking tight.

What does surprise her, however, is the jealousy she feels towards Chloe, and Clint is obviously unhappy, and Natasha suddenly realizes that Chloe is part of why Clint is sad. Why his eyes mimic death. She thinks Chloe doesn't deserve Clint because he needs someone who will make him happy. _Like you?_ hisses a little voice in the back of her head. She ignores it. The possession she feels over Clint is unwarranted, she knows, yet she can't help but want him all to herself. She's unaccustomed to this feeling and her insides are squirming.

Because he's been straightforward with her, Natasha decides she should do the same, although, if there are some details she leaves out, well, what Clint doesn't know won't hurt him.

She tells him about the men she's been with and the ones she usually finds attractive. She describes them in a way that doesn't reveal much about her initial intentions, because she's starting to understand her feelings for Clint and even though they scare her, she doesn't want to ruin anything. At least, not yet. When he expresses his confusion as to why him having a girlfriend doesn't bother her, she tells him the truth. She's been with them all—married men, men with children, men with girlfriends, men with fiancés—and although it used to get to her, it doesn't anymore, with the exception of Clint, but she doesn't say that.

As they near her apartment, Clint apologizes once more for the way he reacted. He still doesn't understand why he's apologizing, but he's placated by her response.

"I'm not used to people...standing up for me," she sighs, her words laced with hesitance.

"And I'm not used to men caring, either. Of all the guys I've been with, you've been the most genuine, kind, considerate one, and honestly, that scares the shit out of me." Her expression is raw, so honest Clint feels a bit privileged.

"They're all such cowards and assholes and they're so pathetic. When Derek confronted me, I was so angry that I had chosen him on my own, and the way he treated you, I guess I wasn't really angry at you, and you really needn't apologize. I'm the one that was in the wrong. Thank _you_ for standing up for me."

Natasha leans up on her toes, her arms wrapping around his neck, and she leans in close, her lips ghosting over his.

"You're my favorite, you know? Plus, it was really hot when you punched him."

And then they're kissing and it's the most emotional, breathtaking kiss that Clint has ever experienced and he's surprised his knees don't buckle.

When they part, Natasha jogs up the stairs and stops half way, sending a smile and a wink over her shoulder.

"Thanks for tonight, stud."

Clint isn't quite sure what he's going to do, but he really hopes he manages not to fuck everything up.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the wait, I know I said I'd try and have it by yesterday night, but it's 4am on Monday and that's close, right? :P I kind of struggled with this chapter because I'm really insecure about my writing, especially when I read other peoples' fics, but I'm pretty okay with this chapter, so here you go. The smut I promised and LOTS more to come :3 I'm just afraid it's going to get redundant. Anyways, thanks for favorites and follows and reviews, ya'll are great! :-) Also, Lucia is an actual restaurant, but it's in Boston, not NYC, so if you're ever in the North End, you should definitely go to Lucia. :P_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Oh my gosh, I'm SO sorry for the delay. I know some of you probably think I stopped working on this but I didn't, I swear! I've been suffering from writer's block in regards to this story, as well as the fact that school is still kicking my ass, but we had a snow day today and I started writing last night, so here's a new chapter! I'm going to try to update a bit more frequently next time, haha. Anyways, here and I apologize for any typos/grammar errors but I'm rushing because I promised a friend we would cuddle and watch a movie. I hope you enjoy and as always, reviews are always appreciated! Sorry again!_

* * *

It's been a few weeks since their dinner and despite wanting to spend as much time as they can together, Chloe's back and Clint's been moody. Natasha realizes it's not her fault that he's unhappy, but there's always that nagging in the back of her mind, a poisonous little voice that hisses in her ear and eats up her energy.

_You don't deserve him. You're a dirty slut. Whore. He has a girlfriend—what an awful little girl you are. What does he even see in you?_

Natasha wonders that too.

They don't flirt on the train, or even talk for that matter, because Clint's always afraid a friend of Chloe's will materialize and ruin everything. Chloe's been known to get jealous.

The tension between Clint and Natasha is palpable though, and a slight brush against her sends jolts through his nerves and his hair stands on end and he has to put space between them before he does anything rash. He can tell Natasha feels it too, the way she stiffens and breathes harshly through her nose; she avoids eye contact with him because all he'll see is black.

They text though—a lot. And if Chloe was the one that paid the phone bills, well Clint would be fucked and up shit creek without a paddle. He doesn't count because he thinks it'll make him seem love sick and clingy, but at least one text is sent between the two every hour and Clint is positive he talks to Natasha more than he does to Chloe.

Natasha sends him photos too, and Clint hasn't kept a single one because he's smart, or at least, he's smart about not getting caught. He's really fucking stupid for getting himself into this mess.

But the photos keep getting racier and racier and he keeps getting hornier and hornier. He's so desperate to get some alone time with Natasha, but when he's not working, he's at home trying to avoid Chloe even while they're in the same room.

She's noticed too, and the first time she says something Clint just about has a heart attack because she stops him before he goes to bed one night, latching onto his wrist and asking, "Is there something you're not telling me?"

Clint's never sweat bullets before now, except for when Natasha walked into the restaurant and his first thought was fucking her on their—

His eyes go wide and he stops himself mid-thought because this is absolutely the wrong time to be thinking about _that_.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, maintaining eye contact.

"You just seem so tired all the time," Chloe whines and Clint feels relief again. "You're always either working or sleeping and we don't spend any time together."

"It's just work, I've just had a lot of projects to work on," he says, gently pulling his arm from her grip. He leaves for work before she wakes up the next morning.

Half a week later, he and Natasha have fucked in the dingy Starbucks bathroom twice—once with the metal handicapped bar digging into Natasha's ass, resulting in a long bruise across her cheeks for the rest of the week, and another time with Natasha gripping the porcelain sink, Clint pounding into her from behind, gripping her hair so her back makes a beautiful curve and her neck is exposed. They fuck so hard that the sink begins to shake loose and they leave before it can break from the wall.

Clint's tried not to think a lot about his _situation_ because every time he does, his head feels like it's going to explode and he ends up playing angry minesweeper on his computer, imagining that the little mines are blowing him up piece by piece.

The thing is, he really likes Natasha—a lot—but he's still unsure if there's actually anything there, if they have a future. Chloe still loves him and she's his comfort, his safety, and even though he's only settling for her, tolerating her, he likes knowing he can fall back on her if things with Natasha fall apart. So Clint keeps his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself and even if it's slowly eating at him from the inside out, he knows he can't do a thing.

* * *

She's not sure what it is, but Natasha can tell Clint's feeling especially stressed lately and so she finds herself standing in front of his office building, her neck craning to see the top. As she walks through the building towards the elevators, Natasha notices the various men in their slim fitting business suits and their slick backed hair. She pays attention to the handsomest ones, of course, but as she observes their features, her eyes flicking to each momentarily, Natasha realizes that she's comparing every one to Clint and she keeps finding faults with them. That thought sinks in but she's still not ready, not ready to think about the fact that they're faulty because they're not _him_. She steps into the elevator and can feel their gazes burning into her back.

As she exits onto his floor, the second from the top, Natasha sees his secretary and she really doesn't want to make contact with anyone but _him_ so she hides around the corner and waits until the woman gets up to use the bathroom, only a few minutes after Natasha arrives, thank god.

She hurries into Clint's office, shutting the door quietly behind her.

"Lisa, I told you not to bother me unless—"

Natasha turns the lock.

"What're you do—"

Clint's eyes go wide when his eyes land on Natasha and the radiant smile on her face is enough to clear the lines from his forehead.

"Hi," she whispers, and her eyes are glinting with mischief. Clint is suddenly very glad for the frosted glass that makes up the walls of his office.

When he goes to push out of his chair, Natasha stops him, her hand held up as she walks towards his desk. She trails her finger along the smooth glass of his desk while she skirts the edge, coming to a stop between Clint and the desk.

"I was bored," she murmurs, looking at him through her lashes, chin tilted demurely. "I guess I missed you a little too."

She doesn't miss the way her heart starts pounding and her palms start to sweat—she's filled with the sudden need to hear his response.

Clint gazes up at her, stares at the way her lashes brush the tops of her cheeks when blinks, the way she bites at her lower lip, the way her chest rises and falls and he can tell that she's nervous, despite her best efforts to hide it. She's trying not to squirm under the scrutiny of his steely eyes but she's never felt so naked in front of a man and the way he's been making her feel has her pulse fluttering and her knees shaking.

He stands slowly, his hands coming to rest on her hips and he presses his lips to hers softly, their eyes remaining open. When he pulls back he whispers against her lips, "I missed you too."

The sincerity that laces his voice is so evident that it hurts—a sharp pain that twinges through her heart—and Natasha comes to the painful realization that she's falling in love with Clint. Has been since their date in the coffee shop.

She sucks in a breath, blinks back the stinging behind her eyes, and smiles at him until her cheeks hurt. Before Clint can kiss her again, she pushes him back into his seat and lifts herself onto the desk. He opens his mouth to ask what she's doing but the words that leave his lips are silent because she grabs at the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, the arch of her back and the push if her breasts towards Clint's face mesmerizing.

Clint loves delicacy; the frailty of a girl's wrist, the elegance of her fingers, the tenderness of her eyes, the coyness of her smile, the bow of her lips. The outline of Natasha's ribs as she stretches to get her shirt off has Clint licking his lips and he wants to lay a trail of kisses across her porcelain skin.

The bra she's wearing is sheer and chiffon and Clint can see nipples harden as they come into contact with the cool air of the office. His smile is predatory and Natasha can feel her panties dampen.

Clint's fingers grip at the arm rests of his chair and Natasha enjoys the way his veins become even more defined beneath his suntanned skin.

She drags her fingers across her abdomen, her nails leaving red lines in their wake, and she watches as Clint's eyes follow their path. When she dips them beneath the waist of her shorts, she laughs at the way his nostrils flare and she can hear his intake of breath.

Natasha works herself on top of Clint's desk, her legs spread wide but her ministrations hidden by the thin cloth of her shorts. She revels in the way Clint's eyes shift between her hands, or what he can see of them, and her face, because she knows that it's not just her sex that gets him off. The outline of his cock, big and hard in his pants has her licking her lips and she's really trying not to make loud noises but the look in Clint's eye is giving her butterflies and she's getting really fucking close, so she takes a hand out of her shorts, sucking herself off her fingers and biting down to keep from screaming. Heat floods her veins and her panties are soaked, a wet spot seeping through the crotch of her shorts. She looks down at Clint and sees how white his knuckles have turned. How severely his fingers are biting into the leather.

The chair squeaks as Natasha places a foot on the cushion, sliding it up to press against the bulge in Clint's trousers. She grins, teeth bared and she's about to rise off the desk and sink onto his lap when the tense silence is interrupted by a knock on the door.

Clint's eyes widen and Natasha would laugh if she didn't realize how fucked he is. She grabs her shirt from across the glass and slips into the cubby by Clint's legs. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised that she's so quick thinking in such a situation, but a second knock jars him from his thoughts and he hastily adjusts himself before stumbling to the door, unlocking it and peeking out. His assistant, Joel, is standing there with a notepad.

"Do you need anything?" Clint asks, and Joel mistakes his breathlessness for annoyance.

His hands grip the pad as he stammers, "Uh, well, uh, you asked me to update you every four hours with messages."

Clint groans, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Right, right," he sighs, ushering Joel in. He sits back down behind his desk before Joel can see the tent in his pants.

As Joel rambles on about one of the company's clients, Clint feels Natasha's hands crawl up his thighs towards the buttons of his trousers. H can't grab at her wrists without Joel noticing so he places his palms on the surface of his desk, palms facing down.

Natasha's breath is hot and moist on his legs and her movements are so quick that her soft hands are suddenly pulling him out and stroking him, her thumb spreading the precum.

A furrow forms between Clint's brows as he tries to keep from groaning. Natasha's got her lips wrapped around his cock and her tongue is practically milking him. Joel gives him a look and opens his mouth to ask if Clint is okay, but he just raised his hand, grunting out, "I'm fine, I must've had something weird for lunch."

She squeezes him with her throat and Clint hasn't gotten head in so long, he can already feel the coiling his spine slowly unwinding. Natasha can feel his thighs begin to quiver, tense with exertion.

"You know what, Joel, thanks so much, but how about you come back in an hour or so. My stomach seems to be acting up." His jaw is beginning to hurt from clenching so tightly.

As soon as Joel's left, Natasha wraps a hand around the base of Clint's cock and sucks hard as she pulls back and Clint's hands slam against the glass, his cheek flat on the cool surface. Natasha devours him, swallows him whole and Clint never wants this to end. He realizes he's even more fucked than before when her head pops up from under the desk, her lips red and swollen, cheeks flush, and a breathtaking smile spread across her face.

Clint loves her, or is falling for her, or something like that and he never loved Chloe but he's in far too deep to just break up with her. The thought of ceasing to see Natasha, though, creates a dull ache in Clint's chest and he realizes he's never going to stop-doesn't want to.

He's falling in love with the girl with fire for hair and the burning green eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: I have my first exam of the semester in about 50 minutes and I'm hoping that by uploading this chapter so soon after the previous one, the academic gods will reward me with an 85+ on the exam but I don't know if they'll appreciate me writing and editing my fanfiction when I should be studying. One can only hope. Anyways, this one is relatively shorter than the most recent chapters and for that, I apologize, but it's really just a filler and it's kind of angsty but everything will work out, don't worry. Thanks so much for reviews and favorites and follows and stuff! They're greatly appreciated as always! :-)_

* * *

They've only been on one actual date; Clint doesn't count the two times they went to the coffee shop. And even though he feels guilty every time he thinks about it, he consoles himself—or tries to—with the fact that Natasha _knows_ about Chloe, and he and Chloe haven't really been _together_ for years. According to his own feelings, at least.

Scratch that. He knows he's fucked _and_ fucked up.

But he can't stop seeing Natasha, won't stop because every time they're together she steals another bit of his heart and despite his growing irritation towards Chloe, they've been together for so long that he doesn't want to hurt her.

So Clint continues spending time with Natasha and continues driving a wedge between himself and Chloe, and for some godforsaken reason, she's still not getting it. He's thought that maybe he can get her to break up with him by pushing her away, but she's oblivious to his efforts. That scares him because that's how blinded by love she is.

He asks Natasha to the movies because it's never something he and Chloe did, and the two had been discussing movies the week before. He can't remember the title, but he'll admit that it's not really his main concern.

The feel of Clint's fingers skittering up her knee to massage the velvety flesh of her inner-thigh surprises Natasha and she lets out a small gasp. He moves his hand further towards her sex and traces the outline of her panties through one of the holes in her too short shorts.

As he gently caresses her skin, Natasha gets an idea of her own, and while she places an encouraging hand lightly on his wrist, she reaches over with her other to cup the obvious bulge in Clint's jeans.

She grins at his soft grunt.

As they rub against each other, hands shoved down one another's pants and chairs squeaking with their movements, Natasha cranes her neck to press her lips insistently against his, and this is the most thrilling experience Clint has ever had in his life, in addition to the previous week when she'd shown up at his office.

In spite of their evident desperation to touch each other, the two of them are careful and they don't get caught because it's the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. It's sort of a competition between the two—who can get the other off faster—and Clint isn't surprised when Natasha comes out victorious.

As they're leaving the theater though, Natasha receives a text and Clint doesn't mean to look at it, really. It's not his fault he's taller and therefor can see over her shoulder. But it's from someone named Chris, who Clint can only assume is a man, and he begins to feel that emotion again, the terrible, all-consuming one that douses him in green.

The message requests her presence.

"Who's Chris?" Clint tries to ask nonchalantly.

Natasha hesitates and Clint's heart starts to hammer, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

"It doesn't really matter."

Unaccustomed to dealing with jealousy, Clint says the first thing that comes to mind.

"It does if you're fucking him."

The look Natasha bestows upon him is more painful than a slap, in fact he'd have preferred the sharp hand to cheek than the anger and hurt in her eyes.

"Is that what you think of me?" Her voice is too quiet as she hisses at him, emerald eyes narrowing and bottom lip quivering.

"I don't know what I should think of you. I thought we had something but now some guy named Chris wants to see you? I can't help but remember what that guy, Derek, said!"

A deep red begins to bloom across Natasha's cheeks and her eyes are sparkling now.

"That's really rich coming from a man with a girlfriend of three-fucking-years." She says no more, turning on her heel and leaving, her shoulders hunched and head down, hair swinging in her face.

Clint hasn't felt this much pain in a while and he remembers back to the looks of hatred she'd turned on the random men that approached her on the train.

He's pretty sure the look she'd given him was that.

* * *

They stop talking immediately afterwards, and this time Clint won't be the one to apologize for something he feels he shouldn't have to. It's hard to put into words the anger he feels, the possession over Natasha. He wants her to himself and he doesn't seem the unfairness in that.

On the other hand, Natasha can't believe his hot-headedness and hypocrisy. She'd thought he'd give her a chance to explain, and she was planning on it before he even saw the goddamned text, but he'd gone and jumped to conclusions based on what he'd heard from another man.

It goes back to what it was like before their dinner at Lucia, with Natasha not letting Clint sit next to her and conversing with other men instead, but this time Clint is angry too and so he doesn't look at her longingly out of the corner of his eye—or he does less.

That doesn't mean it's not painful though, seeing Natasha, the girl he's fallen in love with, despite their recent fallout, sitting with men that aren't him and letting them touch her, place meaningful hands in her knees which she doesn't brush away, hands that linger too long on her elbow.

His anger becomes clouded by another more distracting emotion, or maybe it's a feeling because it's more than an ache in his chest this time. It's a sharp pain that pierces his heart and makes him queasy. He begins to get headaches and he begins to eat less. Chloe's the first to notice and she attempts to take him to the hospital.

His staff notice next and they're all just as worried.

He brushes each and every one of them off with a growl and an impatient wave of his hand. He tells them it's just the stress from work and that once the season is over he'll be less irritable.

He ignores the fact that he rarely sleeps anymore and his eyes have gone back to their dull, dead glaze. The flicker that's been burning in his eyes and fueled by Natasha has gone out and there's no promise of its return.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Oh my god, I am SO sorry for the wait. I think I say this in literally every A/N but school is kicking my ass so hard and I've actually had this chapter written for a while but I wasn't very happy with it and it wasn't edited but I think I've fixed it, so here it is! The next chapter shouldn't take so long...I don't think. :-) Your reviews, as always, are very much appreciated-thank you!_

* * *

Three weeks. They haven't spoken in three weeks and while it pains Clint not to talk to her, not to sit next to her and text her and hear her sweet voice that drips like lip-blistering honey, he doesn't think he can stand to be with her knowing that she's also with other men. He pushes away the voice that calls him a hypocrite, excusing himself because he hasn't fucked Chloe in months.

She's on the train every day still, because they may not be speaking but she needs to see him. She's the moth and he's the flame.

But then one day she's not there and normally Clint wouldn't be bothered by that but they don't talk so he's not sure if she's sick or if something else has happened. He desperately wishes things would go back to the way they were; if she were sick he could go to her, take care of her. He thinks maybe she'll be on the train tomorrow.

Two days pass and Natasha is still absent and Clint practically devours his fingers, biting his nails so low that two of them are bleeding. He finds his eyes searching for her constantly but she never appears. She's there the next day, though, sitting in her seat when Clint boards the train and he breathes a sigh of relief that he's been holding for days. Despite his anger, he can't help the way his heart aches for her.

Clint keeps his eyes on her, he doesn't care if she catches him staring, because he's afraid she'll disappear on him again, that she'll dissipate into the wind. She looks so delicate now and Clint senses something is wrong. Her eyes are lowered, her lashes brushing kisses against her skin, and then a bump on the track displaces Natasha's hair for just a moment. Ugly bruises mar the porcelain skin of her neck and the black and blue is emphasized by her already pale complexion. Clint only sees them briefly, before Natasha pats her hair back into place, eyes still dropped.

It takes two large steps for Clint to reach her and he shoves her bag into her lap, ignoring the cries of indigence from passengers he's knocked out of the way. He tries to push her hair away to see the bruises again, but Natasha is too quick, too nervous and she holds her hair in place around her neck.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hisses, brows furrowed.

Clint ignores her question, asking "What are those? Who did that?"

He reaches for her hair again, slowly this time, and Natasha flinches away, her eyes squeezing shut, and it's like she's curling into herself, protecting herself from him. It hurts Clint more than when he found out about the other men.

He persists though, sweeps her hair from her neck and he's frightened by the (extreme) rage that boils within him at the sight.

The bruises are in the shape of two hands, the fingerprints evident on her flesh.

Clint is so lost in thought and anger that he doesn't realize they've come to Natasha's stop. She pushes past him and exits the train, leaving Clint with his hand still hanging in the air where Natasha's had been.

He spends the whole day worrying and mentally smashing his face against the wall. Had he been there for her rather than ignore her, he'd have been there to protect her from any and all harm. He's afraid he'll never see her again and he remembers how her flinch had pierced his heart, so he's surprised in the evening when Natasha is back in her seat and he sits down next to her but they don't talk. Don't even look at each other.

She doesn't get off at her stop, and he thinks maybe she's not paying attention and he's hesitant to get off when they pull into the Central Park station. He doesn't let his confusion show when she stands up behind him.

They exit the station and Clint's mind is whirring, the gears are turning. Natasha can see he's trying to figure out what to say.

"I don't...I need you to...I—" he pauses to pinch the bridge of his nose. They've stopped walking, a few meters into the park.

"I'm in love with you."

Clint's not sure he's heard her correctly and his eyes open wide to look at her, standing in front of him with her chin tilted towards the ground, small and fragile and all he wants to do is kiss her. But he has to make sure.

"Sorry?" he says.

Natasha sighs and it's like she's deflated.

"That day in the cafe, you were so different and refreshing and even though you were like all the other men I've ever been with, there was something unique about you and I thought maybe I'd get over it or the effect would wear off but it didn't because you were so real and I realized I was falling for you, really hard and really fast. I stopped seeing the other men after the second time we met up. It was difficult because there were two of them and neither wanted to stop, but I really liked you. I wanted to tell you but you never really gave me a chance."

Clint feels like the world's biggest jackass.

"You had every right to be angry though, you didn't know the circumstances. The one that texted me that day, he was really angry and wanted to see me a few days ago, so I went to see him to tell him to stop contacting me, I thought maybe it would be better in person, but obviously he didn't like that. I'm sorry, Clint. I'm so, so sor—"

He cuts her words off with his lips, swallows her apologies because they're unnecessary. He can feel the tears on her cheeks and he hadn't realized she'd started crying so he kisses them away.

She takes them back to her apartment and it's not something they have to talk about. It just happens.

The flat is small with large windows and lots of open space. It's already late when they get there and she doesn't waste time showing him the way to her bedroom.

As the backs of his knees hit the mattress and they tumble down together, flesh searing flesh and Natasha's hair tickling his thighs, it's the first time Chloe doesn't cross his mind.

In the morning, the feeling of Natasha's fingers ghosting over his skin still lingers. The trails her lips blazed across his flesh. Whispered promises hang in the air and everything seems so clear to Clint now. He'd pick up his phone to call Chloe right now, if only Natasha's head weren't laying on his chest, her fiery hair splayed like a halo, legs tangled with his.

They shower together, taking the time they've never had to explore each other, to find exactly what makes the other tick, and Clint's head is so clouded with euphoria that all thoughts of Chloe disappear, the twenty missed phone calls he'd seen when he'd woken.

As she's standing at the counter in his button down shirt, pressing through her toes to reach the top cupboard, Clint feels like he's finally come up for air. He comes up behind her, his fingers trailing up her arm leaving goose bumps in their wake, and wraps his hand around hers to grab the plates for her.

The feeling in his chest, he realizes, that light feeling that sort of aches just on the right side of pain, is love and he'll never be as happy as he is right now. He wishes the contentedness would last, that he could capture it in a jar to keep with him forever. For Clint, Natasha is as necessary as air.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: I am SO sorry I had this edited and ready to go (wow I feel like I apologize in every author's note and now I feel like I've written this before too?) and then the motherboard of my computer died and I was so upset and had to wait four days for a new computer but now I have one and my data was transferable so here you go! Thank you so much for favorites and follows and reviews. They're always appreciated! :-)_

* * *

Chloe finds out before Clint has a chance to tell her. She's putting his jacket away, slipping her hands into the pockets when her fingers come into contact with the red lace underwear that Natasha'd given him at _Lucia_. Anger boils within her, her cheeks flushing and she stalks into the kitchen, her footsteps sharp and heavy. Chloe finds Clint's phone on the counter because he's downstairs in the gym and he never brings it with him. It's not difficult to figure out who the girl is.

Her red, curly locks shine and her eyes are bright, lashes long, lips luscious. She's sent him a picture and Clint wouldn't have been so careless with his phone had he realized Chloe knew his password.  
A devious glint flashes through her eyes as she replies to the text, asking where Natasha is.

The sharp click of heels as they grind against the linoleum hallway floor grates Natasha's ears and jars her from her reading. She's sitting on a bench, half an hour early to her next class. As she lifts her chin to see what's causing the offending noise, her view is blocked by a wooly cream sweater. She lifts her eyes to a heart-shaped face and narrowed, brown eyes framed by lanky, brunette hair. Natasha's not stupid—this must be Chloe.

"You're the slut my boyfriend is fucking." It's a statement, not a question.

Natasha would've gone at this in a calmer manner, but she realizes now that this won't be pretty. Her eyes flash and her walls are up.

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call myself a 'slut,' but we are 'fucking,' as you so nicely phrased it. The term seems rather harsh though, don't you think?" Her lips curl up into a saccharine grin, her tone friendly, but neither reach her eyes.

It doesn't come as much of a surprise when Natasha feels the sting of Chloe's palm meeting her cheek. The skin flushes red and there's a sharp pain as her nails catch the delicate flesh, leaving several long cuts along Natasha's cheekbone.

The scorching hatred and rage that glint in Natasha's eyes are enough to make Chloe flinch and she takes a step backwards, afraid of a retaliation.

The tone with which Natasha speaks next is steely and cold, cutting more sharply than Chloe's nails.

"Do you feel better now? Has it solved your problems? Now, why don't you go figure out your relationship issues with the man you're in the relationship _with_."

Chloe is a spineless woman, Natasha can see. As she hurriedly walks away, not looking back to see the look of disgust that the redhead burns into her back, Natasha understands Clint's actions. Had the two had better communication and paid more attention to the relationship between them that clearly wasn't functioning properly, maybe they could have worked things out. But Chloe felt she owned Clint and she'd clung to him so tightly, her claws penetrating deep, that she hadn't realized when she'd finally shredded him, so weary and thin. Natasha will take care of him—fix him.

She splashes water across her still smarting cheek, hissing at the sting of the gashes, and then heads to class, her anger volatile.

* * *

Clint is excited because he's never done this before and he'd always wanted to, so very badly, but Chloe had never been the fun, spontaneous type.

He catches her outside her last class, wrapping his fingers around her wrist as she exits the door ad tugging. Her red curls swirl around her shoulders as she looks to see who has grabbed her.

Normally Clint is greeted with a dazzling smile that makes his heart swell, but today Natasha looks tired and the look she bestows upon him is wary. His brow furrows at the swelling in her left cheek, the cuts that mar her skin.

Clint pulls her into a classroom, locking the door behind him and pushing her down to sit on a desk. While she doesn't resist his actions, she is neither accepting and Clint runs his fingers around the affected area of her face.

"Are you alr—"

"I'm fine, Clint," she replies sharply, her voice acrid.

"I got a visit from Chloe today. She's a lovely girl. I can see why you've been with her for so long." Natasha turns her face away from him, her cheek sliding from his grasp.

Clint doesn't know what to say and the guilt and shame he feels is so overwhelming. The words seem to come all at once, bubbling up and clogging his throat and he can't remove the blockage. So he kisses her instead, tries to convey his apologies with soft lips and gentle caresses, but Natasha won't take it. She pushes him away, nostrils flaring and she looks at him, her eyes cutting, foreboding.

"Natasha, I—shit. Natasha, I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I never wanted to hurt you and I take full responsibility for Chloe's actions. It's just—fuck, I just—I love you." The words slip off his tongue before he can catch them, but he knows it's okay when Natasha's eyes soften, but her brows are still furrowed.

"You can't just say that and expect me to forgive you," she sighs.

"I know, Nat, I know. But it's true, I do. I love you so much and it wasn't until the other day that I realized, laying in your bed and staring at you across the sheets. I realized that's what I want to do every morning and I'm sorry I was too stupid not to realize sooner."

"Stop, please stop," Natasha says, her voice cracking into a giggle.

Hurt flashes across Clint's face at her words and she holds her hands up, palms facing him, trying to reassure him.

"Oh my god, Clint, I wasn't laughing at you. I'm sorry! You don't have to go on, is all I meant."

She takes his hands in hers as she lowers her voice, "I understand."

She pulls him closer, "You don't have to say anymore because I know."

She squeezes his hips between her thighs and leans towards him, "Anyways, I don't want you going all _soft_ on me."

Their lips brush and Clint promises to take care of everything. To take care of her.

They use their bodies as apologies and as expressions of love—their lips promising, tongues soothing, teeth claiming, hands conquering.

* * *

When Clint returns home to find Chloe playing the doting housewife, he sits her down and tells her how it is. He's in love with Natasha and he's selling the apartment.

If he thought Chloe was overbearing before, now she's got her claws sunk deep and she's trying to hold on as best she can but Clint's finally resisting, finally _doing_ something and he slips from her grasp. Desperation seeps through her pores and Clint finds it incredibly unattractive. He wishes she would stop.

"Clint," she wails, clutching at his hands, but he pulls them away before she can make contact, "You can't do this to me!"

"We've been together for four years and suddenly you're in love with some tramp?" she demands, stomping her heels against the floor.

"What happened to _us_? I thought you loved me. I still love you!" Her lips turn down into a frown but it's so petulant, Clint doesn't feel much guilt.

He scoffs. "You're kidding me. Chloe, what we have hasn't constituted a relationship in about two years. Our conversations are so bland and we haven't even had sex in nine months. You go around acting like our relationship is still perfect when there isn't even really one."

She ignores what he says, her eyes narrowing as she leans forward.

"So you're just using her for sex then?"

Clint doesn't stand for violence against women, but boy would he love to grab Chloe by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.

"You literally just disregarded everything I said _but_ the part about sex. You say you love me and I don't doubt that you care about me, but how can you say you love someone when you haven't noticed their pain for the past two years?"

The room is quiet as Chloe glares daggers into the wooden flooring beneath her feet. Clint sighs, stepping forward to rest a hand on her elbow.

"Look, I really like Natasha and I'd appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself and stayed away from her. I'm selling the apartment and speaking with an agent tomorrow."

Anger burns red hot in Chloe's cheeks and she yanks her arm away from Clint's hand.

"And where do you expect me to stay?" she snarls, and the sudden change in Chloe's demeanor startles Clint, although he doesn't let it show.

"I booked you a room at the Ritz for two weeks. That should be enough time for you to arrange more permanent living arrangements."

The tension is palpable and yet Clint feels like this is the easiest thing he's done in a while.

His shoes squeak noisily against the waxed flooring as he turns towards the door.

"Goodbye, Chloe," he says over his shoulder. His face lacks all emotion and it frightens her to realize how little she means to him. She's not done with him.

"You're an asshole, Clint!" she shouts from the couch, hands gripping her knees to keep from throwing something.

"You're never going to be as happy with her as you were with me, and she's basically a child, seriously, Clint? You're disgusting." Her teeth are bared and the sneer she sends him only serves to substantiate his decision.

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, the door halfway open.

"Yet she's the one with claw marks in her cheek."

The door closes behind Clint with a soft click, blocking out anything else Chloe has to say, and for the first time in years, he breathes.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Please see notes at bottom._

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Marvel_.

* * *

Clint steps into the dimly lit club, his eyes narrowing as they adjust. It's Natasha's 20th birthday and she's asked him to meet her here, although Clint's not quite sure how she's gotten in, being under 21 and all.

He spots her at the bar in a skintight, scoop backed dress that looks as if it were painted on. In a moment of awe, Clint remains just outside the bar area, watching Natasha as she laughs at something the bartender says.

Her curls bounce around her slender shoulders as her head tilts back, red lips parted and breasts bouncing. Clint doesn't miss the way the bartender's eyes trail down her throat and land on her chest, leering.

Clint's about to step forward to join Natasha when she's approached by a younger man who looks to be in his early twenties. With a hand pressed against her lower back, the man leans over Natasha, whispers something in her ear.

Ignoring the twinge of jealousy in his gut, Clint thinks the two make a handsome couple and he can't help but remember Chloe's words as they echo in the back of his mind.

Natasha is much younger than him and he wonders what his parents would think. Would they care? He knows they're expecting grandchildren at some point and he can't imagine Natasha wants them anytime soon. To be quite honest, he doesn't really either. He realizes suddenly that this could all be a huge mistake. Not for him, but for Natasha, a beautiful, bright girl with an even brighter future.

Maybe he's holding her back, he thinks, tying her down when she could have any man she desires.

Clint's hands begin to sweat and he can't even be bothered that the younger man is sitting beside Natasha now, a hand on her knee. Every niggling fear and doubt that Clint has ever had about their relationship comes leaping to the surface.

_You've made a huge mistake, you're going to ruin her life. So much potential. She's so young. _

He takes a step back and then another. Before he knows it, he's back outside, shoulders hunched over and hands shoved into his pockets. He's not quite sure where he's going but he knows he shouldn't have come. He wonders how he ever thought this would work and curses himself for being the one to hurt her. He'll call her tomorrow to apologize for not coming, make up some excuse about work taking up too much time.

So caught up is he in his thoughts that he doesn't hear the fast click of heels behind him until a hand grabs his wrist and yanks him around.

"Clint!" Natasha has hurt written clear across her face.

He's not actually prepared for confrontation and he stutters like fifteen year old boy on his first date.

"Uh, Natasha, hey! I, uh, I got to the club but you, uh, looked like you were ha-having a pretty good time, so I, uh, didn't want to disturb you." Jesus fucking Christ.

Natasha studies him for a long moment, her green eyes burning into his own, before she seems to make up her mind and begins to drag him back towards the club.

"You saw me with that guy," she says very matter-of-factly, without turning around.

"God, he was a creep. Couldn't keep his hands off of me. It would've been nice if you'd come over to save me, rather than just stand there staring."

Clint rubs the back of his head sheepishly. Of course she'd seen him.

They're right outside the entrance when she turns to face him, her fingers still wrapped around his. Their eyes meet again, for a longer amount of time, and it feels as if Natasha can see right through him. Like she can read every single one of his thoughts.

She doesn't surprise him.

"Whatever you're thinking, it's wrong." She licks her lips, her eyes flicking down to his.

"You're being an asshole. It's my birthday, please don't ruin it. I meant it when I said I love you and I know you meant it too." She doesn't need to finish the rest of sentence.

_Stop being so insecure._

Natasha kisses him then, her tongue sliding over his bottom lip, teeth leaving light impressions. And just as suddenly as Clint's doubts had appeared, they're gone and all he can focus on is Natasha.

What had he almost done?

They reenter the club and Clint follows her to the bar, looking around as she orders their drinks. It's a nice place, the kind he'd have gone to when he was her age, but now he feels out of place surrounded by people still in college and grad school. His feelings of uncertainty are beginning to surface again, but he tamps them down when Natasha squeezes his thigh.

As he twists to reach for his drink, he spots the young man from earlier making his way towards the bar, his hungry stare focused on Natasha.

Before he can make it over, Clint grasps Natasha's jaw and crushes their mouths together, giving her the most thorough kiss he can. Her hands come up to steady her weight against his biceps and he cracks open an eye to see the guy retreating, posture defeated.

When Clint pulls away, Natasha looks at him questioningly and he only shrugs.

"Just making a statement."

She grins at that and then downs the rest of her drink, pulling him to his feet and leading him to the dance floor, a mass of grinding, sweaty bodies, and Clint can't remember the last time he was in _this _situation.

Using Clint's belt loops, Natasha pulls his hips into hers and wedges a thigh between his own. Her smooth undulations send bolts of pleasure shooting down his spine and he wraps an arm around her back for leverage to grind back against her. He hasn't danced like this since he first met Chloe.

Like everything else she does, Natasha's dancing can be described as both incredibly graceful and astoundingly sensual. Her hips sway perfectly with the quick tempo of the music, gyrating in a way that sets Clint's teeth on edge and the way she's kissing his neck isn't making it any better.

He can feel her panting, breath hot and moist against his skin and he figures he's probably doing the same. The ripple of her back muscles beneath her dress is mesmerizing and Clint's so hard in his jeans, all he can think about is how much he loves fucking her; how badly he wants to fuck her now.

When he tries to angle his pelvis to get more friction, Clint feels Natasha's lips curve against his collar bone, scorching air as she laughs. He could probably come from doing just this, he thinks.

She lets he head fall back to bare her neck to him and a strong sense of possession steals over Clint, but he so badly wants to see her eyes so he shoves them back for later.

Lacing his fingers through her curls, he tilts her head until their eyes are boring into each other and Clint commits the sight to memory.

Natasha's pupils are blown, consuming the green so that all that's left is black. Desire. Her lips are parted, bright red and swollen, like she's just sucked him off and Clint has to bite back a groan, his teeth digging sharply into his lip. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion and arousal and it's spreading quickly down her neck. He thinks angels don't look so sinfully delicious.

He doesn't have to say anything as he grasps her wrist, tugging her away from the mass of bodies and towards the restrooms.

They stumble into the men's room, a mess of writhing, volatile lust, and find it blissfully empty. Clint pauses to lock the door behind them before he's pushing her over to the sinks and falling to her knees. It's a sight she's dreamed of for months now. Clint, with his nice clothes and his sad eyes, now bright and alive, on his knees for her and only her. It's not like he's never done what he's about to do to her before, but it's never been with him kneeling before her and her towering over him. She feels powerful.

He presses her back against the porcelain counter with one hand and uses the other to push her dress up around her hips.

Natasha's not wearing underwear and his mouth goes dry, and he presses his face against her stomach, his moan stifled by her velvety skin. Her laugh reverberates through her abdomen and her voice is teasing.

"I told you I love you."

Clint responds by trailing kisses down to her hip bones, wet and hot, leaves a bite mark over each. He wants to show her off to the world.

He leans his head in to give one long lick up her slit and then pulls away, Natasha's desperate moans making him twitch in his pants.

The hand he's using to keep her anchored to the counter slides down to her thigh and he pushes against it, opening her up to him so he can leave a love bite on her inner thigh.

_Mine_, he thinks.

Natasha's hands tangle in his hair impatiently as he does the same to her other side, and when he's satisfied with his work, he uses arm strength she hadn't realized he has to lift her onto the counter and rewards her for waiting. The power Clint possesses makes her wetter.

Clint is as thorough with his mouth as he is with his hands and Natasha has no complaints as she rides his face, her clit grinding deliciously against his nose.

Using the flat of his tongue, he licks up her slit again and swirls it around her sensitive nub, before plunging it into her dripping pussy, groaning at the taste of Natasha, the smell of Natasha, he's drowning in the best way possible.

Her fingers grip his hair hard enough to cause a burning in his scalp, but it's not unpleasant and it's keeping Clint from coming in his underwear.

Clint knows she's close when her thrusts become more frantic and her sobs more insistent. Wrapping his lips around her clit, he scrapes his teeth gently across it, and Natasha's fingers clench, her nails biting into his skin. When he sooths the nerves with his tongue and then sucks hard, Natasha is sent teetering over the edge, her thighs suffocation Clint and her head tossing back. He hears her head as it thuds against the mirror behind her and he imagines her lips parted, jaw unhinged in unadulterated pleasure.

He thinks he'll wait until they get back to her place to fuck her, a place where he can have her all to himself, rather than some restroom in a club with someone banging on the door, the shitty techno music drifting through the thick door. A place where he can really take his time. Show her how much he loves her by worshipping every inch of her body.

"Move in with me." It slips from his lips before he can catch himself and he really hadn't meant to ask with his face still firmly grasped between her thighs.

"What?" He knows she understood him though, by the hesitation in her voice.

Clint pulls himself up then, his hands gliding up her thighs and to her waist. He slides her forward until her legs rest on either side of his hips and looks her in the eye.

"I found a new place, one that I really like, and I want you to come look at it with me and tell me you like it. If you don't, we'll find another place, one that we both like, and we'll search until we've looked at every apartment in New York."

Natasha stares at him, eyes wide and pearly whites nibbling at her lower lip.

"I want to take care of you. I want to spend every moment with you. I want to make love to you every day in _our _bed. Or over the back of _our _couch."

She laughs and the sound makes Clint's heart swell.

"I know you're still in school and that you'll probably go to grad school after because you're the most brilliant, talented, promising girl I've ever met, but I'll wait years for you. I don't care how long it takes, but I want to live with you."

It's funny, she thinks, that her sad, tired business man, the one that _she'd _pursued, the one that had wormed his way into her heart, is asking her to move in with him.

_Mine_, she thinks, as her mouth says yes.

"Happy birthday, Natasha," he murmurs against her lips.

* * *

Their apartment is at the top of a very tall building with very tall windows. The sun devours their bed every morning and the rays that shine upon them seem to fuel the flames that are Natasha's curls, spread around her head in a display of chaotic beauty,

_Angel_, he thinks. _Definitely an angel_.

_Fin._

* * *

_A/N: I want to thank you all so much for reading this and for those of you that stuck with it until now-wow, you're all really incredible. I'd also like to apologize profusely for the great amount of time it took for me to write this and I think I've apologized in every single chapter, but yeah. I'm so sorry. _

_If this isn't what you expected to happen in the end, I also apologize for that, I know the feeling._

_Thank you to all of you who have favorited, followed, and reviewed! Also, you should all thank Jo (strangervision) for calling me out on Tumblr and yelling at me to update this fic, and also MalMal86 for sending me a message and giving me some motivation!_


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